


Robin on the Firs

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Series: Holiday Specials [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Christmas, Cute, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Smol Dick Grayson, and a damn young one too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: Bruce stands by the ten-feet-tall Christmas tree, obsessively trying to even out the tinsel over a bright red bulb -and starting to get unnerved that this thing can’t just sit still.--Bruce's very first Christmas with his very first Robin. <3
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Holiday Specials [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069823
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102





	Robin on the Firs

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!! ^_^ A little gift -all I can manage. I most certainly won't be able to finish everything I've got planned to be up by Christmas, but I'll do my best.
> 
> I know times are very difficult, but I sincerely hope you're all healthy and peaceful inside these days. <3

Bruce stands by the ten-feet-tall Christmas tree, obsessively trying to even out the tinsel over a bright red bulb -and starting to get unnerved that this thing can’t just _sit still._

The tree is a little less elegant, and certainly less minimalistic this year. A lot more colorful and laden with various vivid ornaments and tons of warm, golden Christmas lights. And how not, since Dick had insisted that there wouldn’t be a single ornament left aside in a dark, lonely box this Christmas?

Blatantly childish, one could say. Bruce would agree, not pretending for a second that he wasn’t finding it utterly cute. And even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t object to him for any reason in the world. Not in the boy’s first Christmas in the manor, anyway. Not when he’s just started opening up and being joyous.

Five months in, Dick’s progressively doing better, getting used to him, and to this strange, new life. Loving his training, and already so excited and impatient to take up the mantle of Robin (which won’t be happening any time soon, no matter how impatient the boy has become; not until Bruce two hundred percent certain he’s sufficiently trained for it).

On Bruce’s part, saying that he might be feeling a little uncomfortable is a criminally untruthful understatement. He tries to recall an instance when he’d felt more nervous or clueless… and, at the same time, so excited and impatient. The only similar thing that comes to mind is his first night out as Batman. And somehow (in many ways) this feels just as enormous and important.

And… if he has to be honest with himself… a bit scarier, too.

“Master Bruce?”

He spins so fast that the tinsel gets all wrapped up in his fingers and pulled abruptly with him, making a mess every ornament in its way and causing the entire tree to shake up dangerously.

“Son of—!” he hisses and is quick enough to stabilize the tree and awkwardly peel the fabric away, uncaring to how it’s now ended up a million times worse than what seemed to be the minor error he originally tried to fix. “Yeah?”

Alfred isn’t as much as blinking an eye to the commotion, which is his first clue that something’s truly wrong, even before the words, “We have a small problem,” leave the butler’s mouth.

First thing that comes to mind is that they’ve possibly forgotten to decline one of the many invitations Bruce has gotten -and rejected- for various Christmas parties around Gotham tonight, but he’d bet Alfred, just like himself, wouldn’t really see that as a problem at all. “What is it?”

“Master Dick.”

* * *

Following Alfred’s directions, he makes his way to the attic, and finds the boy crouched on the corner two of the beams create as they cross, towards the back of the room. His knees are drawn to his chest, chin resting atop of them, arms hugging around them.

“Dick?” he asks, making his way into the crowded space. “What’s going on?”

The boy doesn’t answer him; merely turns his head the other way, so that he doesn’t look directly at him, and Bruce all but panics, instantly trying to reflect on his own acts for the past day or so, trying to think of any mistake he’s made. Because, frankly, it does feel like he’s been making plenty of those lately. Ever since he got Dick.

It… hasn’t been the easiest of things. Dealing with a child. Let alone one as vivid and bright and _traumatized_ as Dick is. Despite being fully aware of exactly how he feels, having his own first-hand experience on that matter… it’s proved to be much more complicated than he originally expected. It took a while to earn his trust, and then, after Dick slowly started to open up, to adapt into his habits, rather than forcing the boy to cope with his own. He’s still working on it, actually, trying to do his very best. It’s pretty much the reason why, this year, he wanted to have this dinner.

Bruce hasn’t allowed himself to have that in… years. Literally since his parents were still alive. Even back when he still was a child, he always insisted he doesn’t want a Christmas meal; merely a regular one. And Alfred always went with it, even though he disagreed, so this time, when Bruce assigned him with a Christmas menu… well. It’s not a usual thing to see Alfred this excited.

This year… this year, things are different. It’s not just the two of them anymore -nor is he alone. This year, he’s got this little boy here. A nine-year-old little boy, completely depended on him, and… and Christmas dinners are nice. It’s what people are supposed to have in Christmas. He assumes that used to be the norm for Dick so far (just like it was the norm for him, up until he was eight). And Bruce wants that for him. Wants the boy to feel nice and warm and happy. Homely. Him and Alfred even went through the menu thrice to make sure it wouldn’t include anything too strange for the boy. They’d have glazed carrots a starter, a salad of tender greens with champagne vinaigrette (because Alfred just couldn’t fully suppress his gourmet skills), roast beef with slow-cooked tomatoes, potatoes and garlic as their main course, and apricot parfait for dessert. Festive enough, yet not too weird, he hopes.

“It’s, uh… it’s time. For the dinner,” he awkwardly suggests once he’s just underneath. “Aren’t you… hungry?”

Instead of a verbal answer, Bruce gets a barely noticeable shake of the boy’s head, and a small sniff which has his heart sinking. Wondering how exactly he’s failed him this time.

A tidal wave of doubt comes to crush over him once again. The _certainty_ that he’s not good enough for this. He… knows. He’s known for a while. Not as good as he thought he’d be, anyway. He thought he’d be a mentor. Someone Dick could trust and lean on. Someone who could help him with all this pain. Help him live with it and cope with it in better ways than himself, if possible. Instead, right at this moment, he just feels like the inexperienced twenty-six-year-old that he actually is.

But he _wants_ to. Wants to be good. To help him. Good God, he wants nothing more than that. And while he might be lacking experience, he certainly doesn’t lack patience. Or stubbornness.

He takes a quick look around and takes notice of the sheet-covered china cabinet he assumes Dick stepped on to get up there (he deeply admires how the boy feels so comfortable climbing up and spending time in such heights; to him, it was a struggle to make himself as comfortable as he currently is with it). Without further ado, he follows his assumed steps. Standing atop of it, he can reach his level, but he’s certain the fir beams wouldn’t hold his weight, so just stands there, reaching out a hand to card fingers through the boy’s hair.

“Dick,” he says in a gentle voice. “What’s the matter, boy?”

Another sniff, but no answer. Bruce takes a short breath, and dares. “Are you… thinking about your mom and dad?”

There’s an audible swallow just before Dick turns his head against his lap to face him, eyes wet with tears. He looks so small in that moment, and Bruce feels helpless. Helpless, clueless, and desperate. “It’s okay,” he instead says, quietly. “Dick, it’s… it’s okay. These days are… I mean, during the holidays… I always miss them the most, too. My parents.”

The boy whimpers. “They were good. _Good._ And… and yours,” he shakily voices. “I’s not fair.”

Bruce feels his throat tight. There are no proper words here. What is there to be said? All he wants is to pull him close. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

Dick swallows back another cry. “If… if you still miss yours, then… then it’ll be always like this?”

“No,” Bruce instantly snaps, shaking his head vividly. “No. I promise you that, Dick. I… I won’t lie to you -never would; you… won’t stop missing them. But one day… a moment will come when it’ll be Christmas again, and despite still missing them… you won’t be sad anymore. You’ll just remember all the beautiful things you did together these days… and how much they both loved you.”

It’s… not _exactly_ the truth. Not in _his_ case. But, despite all the similarities, him and Dick are not exactly the same (thankfully). It could truly be like that for him, one day. And he intends to do anything in his power to achieve that for this little boy, currently lifting his fist to wipe some more tears away, looking at him with those big, clear blue eyes.

“And I want you to know,” he adds after a short struggle (heart pounding like crazy in his chest, because he’s never made such a promise to anyone before; meaning it with all his might and soul), “that you will never be alone, Dick. _Never._ I will always be here. And I… I know it’s not the same as having your mom and dad, I know that very well, but—”

He stops, watching the boy shifting, before rising on his knees, leaning forward, and wrapping arms around his throat.

It takes him a moment to surface from the awkward surprise and adjust to it (it always does), but that’s just about it. He embraces the boy, pulls him close and cradles him. Dick latches and hangs himself against him as he carefully climbs off the beams and the cabinet to sit himself on his grandfather’s old rocking chair right beside (currently covered by another sheet), holding the boy against his chest and pressing a soft kiss at the top of his head.

They just stay like that, not a single word spoken, until Alfred makes his appearance through the attic door. The butler’s lips are slightly lifted by a smile when he casts eyes upon them, before politely clearing his throat. “Gentlemen. Pleased to inform you that dinner is just about to be served.”

Bruce hums softly, rubbing a hand in circles over Dick’s back. “I think we’re not too hungry at this point, Alfred.”

“Uuuuum,” Dick lifts his now clear face up at his, “I’m a little hungry,” he announces.

“Oh!” Bruce shrugs, feeling a bit like an idiot. “Well, yes, of course then—”

Dick smiles, rubs his eyes one last time and jumps up, climbing down after Alfred.

 _“Why are we calling it dinner, since it’s lunch time?”_ he hears the boy asking as he slowly gets up himself. _“Rich people are weird.”_

_“Well, master Dick---”_

Their voices move away as Bruce takes his time to make his way behind them. Feeling lighter and somehow more content than ever before during this time of the year, since he can remember himself.

Since he last had a family.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


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